Coming to the Stage- Part 2

/ Bryanda Minix / 1 Comment

I do love a good metaphor.  In Part 1, I wrote about stages: stepping to them, being on them, going through them, sharing them… you get the point.  However, I am happy to report, that it is not just a metaphor; I really am coming to the stage again.

Two days ago, I went to an open audition.  I haven’t auditioned in a ridiculously long time.  That’s not to say that I haven’t been performing.  I have been dancing and even singing on stage quite a bit up until recently, but for whatever reason, either I haven’t had to audition (#winning #MyReputationPrecedesMe), or I haven’t been taking enough risks.  Unfortunately, we know which one was more commonly the case.  The underlying problem has been that I haven’t had the capacity to do more.  Now that I have made some schedule changes and sacrifices (more on that next Tuesday), I have the opportunity to do more with all the creative energy that I have been bottling up.  So imagine my giddiness, while reading the playbill for a theatre company that I admire, and noticing that they were holding auditions only 3 days away!  My heart sank as I realized that I had a work conflict.  It only took one text message, inside one minute, to switch my schedule around (that has never happened before!!!  Switching schedules usually requires a high level of begging, bribery, and/or blackmail akin to those in public office, but miracles do happen everyday!).  I was able to audition!

After emailing my headshot and a rather unimpressive resume of my meager body of work, (darn The Struggle for being so real!!!  If all you do is work, then of course your extracurriculars suffer) I received my audition time.  It was really happening!  Then, I had a brief flashback, remembering how awkward I was in high school during auditions: I was the dweeb in the bathroom reciting lines over and over again, and even practicing tongue twisters (“Red leather, yellow leather, red leather, yellow letter” “the seething sea ceaseth, and thus the seething sea sufficeth us”).  I did this nervously up until the very last minute.  When my name was called, all my preparation immediately went out the window; I became someone else, and unfortunately not the characters I was trying out for, but the mild mannered Clark Kent version of myself, hiding my super powers.  Auditions often begin with the director asking a few questions, they’re getting to know you and/or trying to put you at ease.  I was wound so tight, that no amount of preamble could have put me at ease.  This level of performance anxiety derailed most every audition.

If you think I am over exaggerating how badly I bombed at auditions, allow me to introduce exhibit A: I tried out unsuccessfully for my high school’s theatre company two years in a row.  I continued to take theater classes, in both technical theater and performance, however procuring a place in the company always alluded me.  The only reason, I think I made the company after trying out my junior year, is because my theater teacher overheard me telling another classmate, that if I didn’t make it in this year, I’d be done with the theater program.  To this day, I am not sure whether I made it in based on the merit of my audition, my record of outstanding work in class, or out of pity.  Either way, I was elated to finally be “in”.

So this is what I recalled first, as I read my confirmed audition time.  I quickly regrouped by flashbacking  over all the time that has passed since high school and all the times I successfully performed, feeling at home on stage and connecting strongly with the audience.  I’ve come a mighty long way since my lame days of high school, but it left some residual phantom pains of lameness.  I foolishly wondered, “I don’t have it anymore, but can it grow back!?!”  I made a choice, in that moment, to no longer entertain those thoughts, and chose instead to be excited for the opportunity.  The take away from all the flashbacking is that being prepared, remaining calm, and confident in my abilities is key.  Maybe I don’t have much experience with auditioning since high school, but I have a lot more performance experience since then.  I told myself, “I got this!”  Also, I wore my confidence-boosting secret weapon… red lipstick.

I arrived surprisingly early, because I found the place without any trouble.  There were signs on the door outside that told me I was in the right place.  (For all my fellow metaphor lovers, I shamelessly point out the last sentence.)  I took a seat and a deep breath.  “You got this!  Just have fun!” I assured myself.  I could hear laughter coming from the audition in progress.  Finally, the door opened, the last auditionee stepped out, and then my mispronounced name was called (the unique name struggle).  I remained myself, no Clark Kenting.  Inside were the director and two company members.  The black and white image I provided for my headshot looked up at me, smiling reassuringly, from the director’s table as I grabbed the script we would be reading from.  I got a brief description, from the director, about the short play and the characters within it.  The two other company members were my scene partners.  Talented and funny, they didn’t just read the lines off the page.  They acted out the scene with enthusiasm, and instead of being intimidated, I simply reveled at our play.  I got to “read” for different parts, and then it was over.  It felt like an enjoyable roller coaster ride: the anxious butterflies at the beginning, the thrilling euphoria of rising and falling, the hilarious yet awkward reactions to the unexpected, the joy of feeling suspended in time, and finally the abrupt disbelief that comes with the unavoidable return to central standard that signals the end of the ride.  “What?!  It’s over already!?!  Can I go again?!”  I tried out; I made mistakes; I kept going; I got a few laughs.  I just wanted to get right back in line and ride again.

In the end, the audition did have a bit of awkwardness (though extremely watered down; it was more of an eua de toilette hint of high school lameness).  I wouldn’t say I #nailit, but I can honestly say I had fun.

I find out later today whether I’m “in” or not.  Whatever the outcome, I am going to keep coming to the stage.

Advertisement

Coming to the Stage- Part 1

/ Bryanda Minix / 2 Comments

I readily admit that I don’t know what I am doing.  I am an amateur at mostly everything, especially life.  But I love to learn, and I keep stepping to the stage.

ACT I

It started out small.  I remember being no more than five fingers old, packed tightly in a car full of my loved ones, grown-ups in the front seat, little cousins perched precariously on the laps of big cousins in the back.  We were on our way to the Alamo.  I don’t remember much about the Alamo, despite that being it’s thing… REMEMBER THE ALAMO, but I do remember the road trip.  The time spent in the car, the time wasted out of the car because of the multiple unscheduled stops my urgent and unpredictable restroom request caused (my young bladder was not cut out for the open road), the game of Catch-22 (long before I understood what a Catch-22 was) I played with my uncle where I tried to get candy (if I asked for skittles, he mischievously claimed to only have “ski-diddles” and when I asked for “ski-diddles” he confusingly only had Skittles).  This road trip to the Alamo contains my first memory of trying on other people’s lives: observing actions, speech, mannerisms, and then reflecting them back.  It is the prequel story to the saga of my passion for acting.

The first scene, takes place in front of a mirror, hanging on the wall of the motel room my extended family shares together.  I notice my Uncle “Ski-diddle” grooming in the mirror.  I have been captivated by him ever since our game of “chase the rainbow”; he is a giant and kind and playful, and without trying he nurtures my silly side.  Eventually, observing isn’t enough, so I stand next to him in the mirror, just barely tall enough to see over the dresser, and mimic his every move.  We wordlessly continue our little drama:  he brushes his hair… I brush my hair; he adjusts his clothes… I adjust my clothes; he shaves his facial hair… I shave my non-existent facial hair.  My very first improv scene.  My very first stage.

As a young girl, I wanted to be many things when I grew up, but I always included actress.  Growing up in church offered unique opportunities to “perform” before an “audience”.  One story, which I shall share in another post, and which my big cousins have never let me forget, involves having to be tactfully removed from the pulpit and separated from my new best friend, the microphone.  I was way too comfortable on stage.

Another moment, I can never live down, involves being obsessed with the movie “Coming to America”.  I loved the scene where the Prince of Zamunda meets potential wifeys.  My favorite thing to do was reenact one part in particular: I hold an imaginary lighter beneath my palm as the flames dance along my unflinching flesh, and quote in a most serious and monotone voice, “I was Joan of Arc in my former life”.  Oh yes!  Waaaaay too comfortable on stage.

INTERMISSION

Fast forward in my timeline past my awkward, insecure pre-teen adolescence, past loss and grief, and pause for a moment at my high school self.  I took acting very seriously.  I believed I was good at it, and I certainly loved telling stories and playing roles on stage.  But there’s is a but.  Having to audition, be judged, and compete for roles made me feel insecure.  I was no good at auditioning, and in fact, I had to tryout over again for three years before I ever made it into my high school’s theater company.  My senior year, I was finally able to perform in front of an audience, and yet I began to shrink on stage.

Shakespeare wrote that all the world is a stage.  The bard’s metaphor definitely applied in my case.  I shrank from a lot of stages in my life.  I continued to hold tightly to the desire to share stories and tell them truthfully, but I was less bold, it was like a birthday wish that you never speak aloud because you are superstitious it won’t come true.  I was afraid it would never come true.  I was conditioned into believing that it was not a sensible dream at my age: “you should study computers”, “do you have a backup plan”, “hardly anyone makes a living like that”.  Advice meant to helpfully shield me from the pain of failure, only redirected my energy at my short comings, and I acted out (or rather opted out) of fear of failure itself.  I traded in my dreams of writing and acting for more practical ones.  I didn’t major in theater or writing, and then later I became a slave to The Struggle (a perpetual cycle of working to earn money to pay bills and rent… only to work more to pay even more bills… saving little yet owing a lot, never getting much farther ahead); I reached a stage in my life where it was nothing but work or study: I neglected my personal needs and relationships and ignored my dreams completely.  But the thing about a calling is, it won’t shut up.  The small voice, no matter how drowned out by distractions or distorted by self-doubt, it remained nagging me during the quiet hours or in my sleep.

ACT II

Now fast forward to the part of the story where, I finally decide to listen and trust the small voice, to be more intentional, to take more positive risks, to once again step to the stage and follow my dreams, and to even have the nerve to blog about it.

I’ve shared my intentions, my struggles, and my hopes, but I realized I have been leaving you out of the process.  Up until now, I have only been sharing my dramatic revelations, the stories that, despite being delayed by tedious perfectionism and harsh self-critique, would not be silent and insisted on being told.  I haven’t connected with others who can probably relate to my struggles, people still learning and unlearning similar lessons.  I have been sending postcards after the fact, as opposed to keeping you informed the entire time.  I haven’t let you in on the everyday moves I make toward that elusive horizon where my dreams live.  I haven’t let you follow along as I co-create my new life.  I left you out of the process.

Sharing in this manner, only when I have profound revelations, does a disservice to both storyteller and reader.  It is giving you an obstructed view of the stage.  And how can we connect more deeply under such conditions?

Henceforth, my goal is to post at least once a week.  Publishing a new post every Tuesday.

I don’t have this whole, “what to do, now that you’ve started a blog” thing figured out, but I did learn that it is important to schedule post instead of posting on a whim.  I have a schedule now!  And now that I have shared the schedule, I have more accountability to anyone reading this.  See how I am learning new things!?!?  (Writer pats herself on the back, as she smiles way too enthusiastically at the fact that she created a schedule).  Have I told you how happy it makes me to share my work with you?!  Thank you so much for reading!

I am inviting you back on that field trip I promised a couple posts ago.  I want to share a more complete picture of the journey I am on.  I happily share this stage with you.

The Discovery of Matter

/ Bryanda Minix / 6 Comments

Hello again!

I apologize for my prolonged absence; I was busy wrestling with some heavy scientific discoveries.  I am happy to report that I am back because I have made a phenomenal breakthrough.

(Scientific discoveries?  Breakthroughs?  But I thought this was a blog about following your dreams, becoming professional, being a writer, or lung capacity of whatever.)  

Believe me, I thought so too.  But a funny thing happened once I decided to actively pursue my dreams.  I’ll explain that a little later, but first let me get back to my scientific findings.

I discovered matter.

Now don’t go fact checking on Google or anything, just trust me.  If you’ve read any of my previous post then you know that I like metaphors and field trips, so willingly suspend your disbelief for just a moment and go with me on this.

I discovered matter.  Mind.  Blown.  Right?  I know.  My mind is just so incredibly amazing.  I discovered what all human life is made of.  My mind is also pretty powerful; it can manipulate matter, defying the laws of the universe.  For instance, I can disappear.  Now you see me… now you don’t.  You want proof?!?!  Here, I’ll show you.  Take for instance my long hiatus from this blog I just recently started.  Have you seen me?  No, because I disappeared.  More proof!?!  Okay, I am very skilled at disappearing; I vanished from dance companies, workout groups, family functions, relationships, and a lot of other things I used to really enjoy doing.  I have an uncanny ability to “catch ghost”.

Remember my mind is extraordinary… it can fabricate things.  More seriously, it fixates on things.  To be completely vulnerable, it fabricates and fixates on my flaws, mistakes, and misfortunes.  You see, I battle depression.  This is not an easy subject for me to put out there, but it has become imperative that I share.

Why even share deeply personal experiences?   This wasn’t my idea at first.  I thought that this blog was going to be all “what challenge am I going to conquer this week?”, but what I quickly discovered was that my quest to follow my passions only lead me deeper inside myself.  My journey lead me directly to what has been blocking me from pursuing that which I love.  Before I can go off completing challenges, becoming professional, earning titles, and saving the world… I have to first be honest with myself.  I am sharing these hard truths about myself and the way my mind works, because I am certain that I am not alone.  I am sharing this because there is someone else out there convincing yourself that you are not enough; fighting to stay barely alive, not living the life you want, feeling as though, at any minute, everything could fall apart, and that you might lose control.  I am sharing this because even as a deeply spiritual person, I battle depression.  I am sharing this because church folks unconsciously and consciously perpetuate myths that say having mental/emotional struggles mean that you are weak or faithless.  I am sharing this to erase the stigma.  I am sharing this because of Robin Williams.  Because it really hit me extremely hard, that someone so seemingly successful doing what he loved and was good at, who had battled depression for so long, could end his life.  I am sharing this because I have questioned whether or not I am supposed to be here.  Because I have wanted the pain to stop so badly that I have contemplated letting it all go.  I am sharing this because I know that life is a precious gift, yours and mine.  I am sharing this because I discovered part of my purpose is to make connections.  It is what I seek to do with my stories, and metaphors, and in teaching.  I want to help us realize how this is connected to that, how something you already know is related to something you don’t, how we are all connected, and that we all matter.  Our stories matter.  Our lives matter.

Speaking of matter, let me share my discovery:

Discovering Matter

“We’re made of the same stuff as the moon and the stars. The ocean’s salt waters just like my tears are”  -India Aire, God is Real

Matter is one of those things we learned in elementary.  Solids, liquids, gas.  Matter is anything that has mass and takes up space.  We learned that every living creature, physical objects, oceans, mountains, and just about everything is composed of matter.  The elements that compose great celestial bodies are some of the same elements found in our human bodies.  We are made of the same things and yet each of us is so unique.   I believe we are fearfully and wonderfully made, and yet sometimes I don’t want to be here… like on the planet… like in existence.  Sometimes it is because the pain living inside is too great to measure.  Sometimes it is because I am tired of being who I am, and I feel as though I am a horrible waste of human life.  My negative thoughts can easily convince me that I am “The Worst”.  “Who would really miss me anyway; my family doesn’t even need me; everyone would be better off without me; all I do is mess up; I am not making a significant difference in the world; I can’t even take good care of myself, of course I can’t help other people; life is too hard; dreams don’t happen; love is a lie; there is so much pain; it’s all meaningless; I don’t matter”.  Even as a very spiritual person, I struggle with feeling like enough.  However, I have finally recognized what triggers my descent into despair.

I seek approval when I want to feel like I am enough.  And in order to feel like enough, I want to be good at everything and make no mistakes.  I want to be enough because then maybe I’ll matter, to myself and someone else.  Every time I have considered “going gently into that good night” it has been because I am convinced that I don’t matter.  Some people harshly judge those who hurts themselves, believing that it is selfish or cowardly.  Others are simply confused as to why someone would ever self-harm.   To family, friends, and colleagues who are grappling with why: it is most often a desperate act fueled by despair and the misguided notion that things will never change and that life doesn’t matter anyway.  If we think we don’t matter, then we believe that we aren’t really hurting anyone else when we hurt ourselves.

This is of course false.  Anyone (family, friends, co-workers, random people who only know us through our work/reputation) can be deeply wounded whenever one of us self-destructs.  We are all connected, and every human life matters.  Every life has impact on others.  Like water, even small drops create large ripples that intersect with others, influencing the trajectory of what it touches.  One of the reasons I am still breathing air is because, I could always think of at least one person I might be hurting by giving up on myself.  My sister and brother (who already lost our parents).  The children I care for and teach.  My best-good-peas-and-carrots friends.  The connection I had to them saved me from hurting myself irrevocably.  Connection is key in combating depression, and unfortunately, one of the first things depressed people do is separate ourselves, withdrawing from people and things that add value to our life, disappearing into a world of solitude and sorrow.

But you seem like such a happy person; how can a person with such infectious joy be depressed?   Depression does not define me.  Depression does not steal all my days, nor does it control all my thoughts, it does however mean that the way in which I cope with life’s trials is different than those who do not deal with depression.  People who know me relatively well might be shocked to discover I am living with this heavy burden.  For the most part, in public, I seem like a pretty cheery, energetic, encouraging, glass half full, sunshine & rainbows type of person.  When you see me happy, it is because I have fought hell to be in that state.  It is like visiting Disney World, or seeing an especially outstanding show… most people don’t realize all the work that goes on behind the scenes to make it possible.  I do a lot of work behind the scenes so that it is possible to share my best self.  I strive to live in the moment, limit my impulse to complain, and practice gratitude for what I do have.  I am also a master at compartmentalizing.  My life can be falling apart in one area, but I make an extra effort to be joyful in the other areas.  My work with children, for instance, is my heart’s joy (my ministry).  I am in my natural element, so I am able to be my best self.  Many people believe children are cruel.  Children can be cruel, but those are kids that lack understanding.  Children that know and love you are surprisingly accepting and forgiving.  Even still, when I convince myself that I have failed my kids, my pendulum of emotion shifts to the opposite end, and I am thrust into despair.  It takes strong self-awareness, spiritual guidance, and conscious daily effort, but it is possible to live a full life.   And guess what!?!  I discovered that it is possible to do more than simply endure it.  We can actually enjoy our years on this spinning pile of matter.

One does not simply create matter

I matter simply because I am.  We do not have to DO anything to matter.  I have mass and take up space.  I am made of matter therefore I matter.  It’s helpful to others that I am a kind, generous person, with a sense of humor, and can make a mean sandwich, but that is not what makes me matter.  If all these things were stripped away, I am still significant, simply because I was created.  Ask a woman who has miscarried, her unborn child did not DO anything except be created, and yet the baby’s existence matters.  Being here, that is miraculous.  Being formed into matter means we already matter.  Simply because we were created.  And I believe that there is a reason we are here.  There is a reason we were created.  “Enough” came with the package… factory standard.  We. Are. Already. Enough.  We cannot earn our worthiness, and we cannot lose our worthiness.  Thank God for that!

As I type this out on my laptop, I am reminded of another metaphor, illustrating the importance of connection when battling depression.  Bear with me, it’s the last one (I think).  My laptop has a limited amount of battery life.  This means I can only work for so long before it completely shuts down, and I must reconnect the power cord to the outlet.  One day my computer shut down without warning.  I was extremely confused, because it appeared to be plugged in.  On my laptop, there is a light that indicates when power is being received.  When I checked the cords, I finally noticed that the light kept flashing on and off.  I realized that the connection was the problem.  It was faulty and had to be replaced, because it wasn’t doing its job properly.  It wasn’t connecting my computer to the power source.  Do you see the parallels?  My disconnect happens whenever I rely on faulty connections.  My mind is capable of creating the faulty connections.  “If I do this, this, and this, THEN I am worthy.  I must be this, this, and that first.  I can do this on my own.  Oh no, I have not done this, that, and the other yet, because I am not enough.  I don’t matter”.  If I am not connected to a power source, I can only go for so long before I can no longer function properly.  This connection not only keeps me running, it gives me energy to create more with what I am made of.  It gives me energy to connect to others and recharge them.

The truth is I have always been attached to the source, yet at times I couldn’t receive power.

I replaced the connection.

And discovered matter.

The Importance of Controlled Brything

/ Bryanda Minix / 2 Comments

If you’re reading this, you have inadvertently signed up for a field trip.  Let’s go!

At first all you hear is the sound of tires screeching, as you jolt into consciousness.  Your eyelids remain tightly shut, fighting against the overbearing sunlight flooding in through the passenger-side window.  It takes you several seconds to realize that the car has stopped, and that I am yelling at you to get out of the car.  “Run!” I admonish you, “we’ve got to get to the finish line!”  It’s all coming back to you now; I’ve signed us up on the Amazing Race!!!  You gather your barrings and join me in a sprint.  After a while, the chase leaves our lungs starved for oxygen and our feet begging to be amputated.  We carry on.  That’s how important it is to us that we reach our goal.  We have a single-minded determination to persist past pain and every obstacle.  Our brains focus on our most immediate need, oxygen.  In order to keep moving forward, we need a constant supply of fresh oxygen to every muscle in motion.  We control our breathing to keep us calm and to keep us moving forward.

Field trip over!  Oh, but you’re wondering about the finish line, aren’t you?  Just so you know, it was never about the finish line.  That whole trip was a ruse.  I was using you; I’m sorry.  It was all a metaphor.  Let me explain.

If you’ve been following along, you know that I am chasing after my dreams, and that I am finally recognizing the obstacles that have hindered my pursuit.  Chasing dreams sounds romantic, doesn’t it?  The imagery it stirs up, of a cops-n-robbers type caper however, is misleading.  It’s not as simple as running as fast as you can, and it is not as stable as finally catching your target and locking it away.  Following our dreams is a dogged pursuit of a target which masterfully escapes its confines each evening.  Chasing misrepresents what creative people actually do to become a professional.  Pursuing our dreams actually requires more measured steps; following our dreams is therefore a daily practice.  Constantly stepping towards our dreams sounds less romantic, but it gives us a far more accurate description of what to expect.

I started this blog as a challenge.  A wise and creative soul told me that it was time to share my passions with the world, and that perhaps the way to begin was by blogging.  Having a blog is not the finish line though (remember, it was never about the finish line).  It’s about learning all the skills and completing the work that move me toward the finish line.  It started with a challenge, so it naturally makes since to continue that practice.

Each week I will seek and complete an exercise, which I endearingly refer to as “Brything Exercises”, that allow me to grow as a creative artist, share my passions, and promote my work.  Each challenge is designed to move me forward in the direction of my dreams.

 

Remember that field trip, from the beginning of this post?  That’s not the only one you signed up for.  I am inviting you to tag along with me on all my adventures.  As you share in my experiences, you are welcome to share your own and/or suggest additional challenges I should do.  Let’s go!

-Bry

 

What Took You So Long

/ Bryanda Minix / 7 Comments

When I first realized I loved to write, I was 10 years old.  I was suffering from early on-set adulthood (my childhood began to erode years before it should have), I felt unheard and invisible, and I needed a place to keep all the thoughts, secrets, and events I could not say aloud. It was easy to write then; I wrote for my survival and sanity; I never questioned whether it was good.

Writing became increasingly more important to me.  Several teachers told me I had talent, yet when I first started college, as an English Major, I failed several courses.  I could not produce the written work by the deadline. I accepted failing grades rather than turn in assignments I viewed as mediocre. I did the work but never received credit for it, because I was so fixated on editing out all the perceived imperfections.  I spend hours, days, and weeks perfecting my work, going over it with a fine-tooth comb, restyling it, and constantly critiquing it for worthiness.  I edit myself before the words ever reach the page, and then again after I have written a paragraph or a page, and several times more once the first draft is complete.  Because my process is so tedious, I hardly have anything to show for my effort.

I have another, very different passion.  In a studio, the full length reflection of vibrant tribal patterns clash each other like waves, sweat drips heavily from every orifice of my body, my lungs protest adamantly for more air, and even so, I wear a smile as wide as my face, ignoring discomfort to focus solely on the rhythm which calls to me from the drums.  I am dancing, and when I dance, I am free.  Writing and dancing are two very differing passions of mine, and I thought I approached them differently, however, like the lapas worn for West African Dance, there is a pattern.

At the end of many African dance classes, there is a drum circle.  Dancers and drummers create a circle, and individual dancers enter it to have a conversation, in movement, with the drums.  As a novice, this was most intimidating for me.  I would worry about remembering what I had just learned, staying on rhythm, and whether I was skilled enough to dance in the spotlight.  Usually, I would forfeit the opportunity to step forward.  From my spot in the circle, I remained animated, sharing my joy and mirroring steps.  As long as I did not feel pressure, I could perform.  An intuitive and observant drummer discerned my hesitation, and gave me advice that I now apply to my passions and life.  He told me that I was missed in the conversation, that as a drummer he needed my energy, that my spirit, the joy I exude while dancing, motivated and compelled him in his drumming.  He advised me to never hesitate.

I am capable of dancing with reckless abandon and writing in the flow.  How is it then that I can experience complete creative paralysis?  I think back to the missed classroom assignments and missed conversations on the dance floor.  I hesitate.  I fixate on perfection.  I fail to produce or neglect to engage.  Ultimately, they are all forms of fear.  And the only way to conquer fear is to face it.  Never hesitate.

It took me a long time to publish a second post, because it took me a long time to connect the dots.  I thought starting this blog was the difficult part: navigating the technical elements, developing content, sharing the first post.  I was naive.  What I recently realized is that the truly difficult part of becoming a professional creative artist is constantly silencing the inner critic and soberly facing fears.  Now that I am familiar with the pattern, and I am aware of what is really holding me back…  you won’t have to wait so long between reads.

What area of your life are you most critical about?  What obstacles are stealing your time and keeping you from creating?  What dreams and ambitions have you been hesitating on?  What’s taking you so long?

-Bry

The Weight of Silence

/ Bryanda Minix / 3 Comments

In my bedroom, on a bookshelf, there is a box, dusty with neglect, which holds journals filled with my broken dreams, secrets, fears, stories, and ideas.  Each volume acts as sedimentary rock layers carbon-dating a specific moment in time and preserving the stages of my growth.  I fancy myself a writer, but usually I hesitate at admitting it out loud.  It seems almost childish, to still hold on to dreams, always hoped for yet never actively pursued.  My passion includes many creative forms: storytelling, acting, crafting, teaching, serving my community, and more than anything I want to help people.

So…what happened?

Why am I not doing what I love most?  Why am I not sharing my gifts with the world?  What happens to the dreamer deferred?

I’ve stayed as quiet as kept when it comes to the dreams I truly desire most.  I keep them for myself and hold on to them like they’re sacred artifacts that become more and more fragile if exposed to the light.  I often worry that if I tell people what I really want to do then they’ll be there judging me, reminding me of all the things I’ve failed at so far, and of the things I have yet to achieve.

Remaining silent about my heart’s desire was protective for me at one time; silence is a learned defense mechanism.  However, silence doesn’t serve me well anymore.  Yes, I don’t have anybody looking down on me for my achievements (or lack there of), but I don’t have anyone looking up at me either.

Silence is not always golden.  That’s why I will share my work within this blog.  My gifts can help someone, so no more keeping them to myself.  Here I will share what I’ve been hoarding exclusively in journals for years.  Here are my stories, my struggles, my successes; here are my fears, my failures, my foolishness; here are my wishes, my wins, and my wisdom.

I invite you to share in my journey.  Each week I will have a new challenge that keeps moving me forward in the direction of my dreams.  I honestly believe that there is no expiration date on our dreams.  However, I also believe that dreams remain just dreams, if we sleep on them.

It’s time to dust off that box of broken, deferred, and forgotten dreams.  It’s time to pick up and get moving.  The journey begins again.

Come in, you are welcome here.

-Bry